


The Tattoo

by Jenwryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Domestic, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a curious business, Sherlock decides; the way in which Sherlock's very skin registers the feel of John's gaze upon it, even before Sherlock's ears – Sherlock's very skilful ears – have picked up the quiet sounds that hover, as always, around his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Written many moons ago for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2279126#t2279126) over at the SHKM. I sort of forgot to post it.

Sherlock is standing in the kitchen, holding the refrigerator door and _considering things._ It is a curious business, Sherlock decides; the way in which Sherlock's very skin registers the feel of John's gaze upon it, even before Sherlock's ears – Sherlock's very skilful ears – have picked up the quiet sounds that hover, as always, around his flatmate. Sounds such as, for example, the murmurings of John's sleepy footsteps in the living room. Or, more precisely, the sound of John's sleepy footsteps coming to a rather abrupt halt.

“I heard a noise,” John had begun to say, perhaps to (unnecessarily) explain his wakefulness, given the hour. He seems to forget the rest of his sentence, however, and simply stands there, in the kitchen door, right out of Sherlock's line-of-sight.

Of course, Sherlock doesn't need to see the doctor, to know the expression that John is most likely pulling. Sherlock doesn't even bother turning around. Instead, he weighs up the chances of their milk being off, and ponders whether now really is the ideal time for his physical form to require nourishment. The consulting detective suspects, all things considered, that it might honestly be more prudent to wait until he's found a way to beleaguer John into going grocery shopping. Or, even better, to beleaguer John into going grocery shopping and then to manipulate him into cooking them a meal.

John is a pleasantly efficient cook, when he actually puts his mind to it.

Or, perhaps, his heart.

Sherlock Holmes is becoming increasingly convinced that it is John's heart, after all, which must be set to tasks, in preference to his intellect. Which isn't to say that the two are not entwined, but there is a definitive—

John, Sherlock becomes aware, is still standing in the exact same spot where he had ceased, some moments before, to move. Sherlock places his attention back on the man, even as Sherlock's eyes continue to scan the refrigerator's shelves, as though fresher milk might have miraculously appeared behind the carefully stacked margarine containers – recycled, currently, into repositories for pickling kidneys.

Sherlock can _feel_ John staring. Can feel John staring at Sherlock's back, and Sherlock's skin tickles in response. Sherlock knows that John's gaze must be fixed on his lower back; must, one would reason, be contemplating the place where Sherlock's skin dips down towards his hip, towards the band of his pyjama-bottoms. Sherlock knows, as his skin prickles further, that this is the first time the doctor's gaze has come into contact with that particular portion of Sherlock's anatomy.

It isn't, of course, as though Sherlock has been hiding his skin; this is simply the first night in which the weather has dictated that a t-shirt, for sleeping, is a redundant and unnecessary item.

Sherlock decides to risk the milk after all, and pours himself half a mug full.

He's in the process of sipping it – not sour enough to turn his stomach – when he finally turns around.

It is rather satisfying, Sherlock cannot deny it, to watch John's face snap upwards from what had, indeed, been an intent study of the exact portion of skin that Sherlock had supposed.

“I was bored,” Sherlock intones, over the mug, as if he really doesn't care about the fact that John's eyes are a little wider than usual, or the fact that John's lips are parted in surprise – as if, in fact, Sherlock doesn't care that his own stomach lurches childishly whenever John turns expressions of that kind upon him. Indeed, as if he doesn't care about any of that at all, Sherlock simply tips his mug up higher, and drinks down what's left. “Bored,” he continues, after swallowing, “and at college, and Mummy had put a hold on my allowance, thanks to Mycroft being a meddlesome drag, and there was little by way of satisfactory amusements. I thought it might make for an interesting distraction.”

John closes his mouth, and rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. Then, after a moment's consideration, John's lips part again, his tongue darting out – Sherlock has been cataloguing its appearances for some time now – and he deadpans, “Bored. You got a tattoo because you were bored? Really, Sherlock? Really?”

Sherlock allows himself a grin – a real, proper, John-induced grin. “As good a reason as any other, is it not?”

John's lips twitch, as though they're itching to grin in return, but don't quite think that they ought to, for some mysterious, typically-John reason. John is thinking – very hard, and very carefully – and Sherlock has found that he enjoys watching it.

Sherlock turns, to put the mug in the sink; John's gaze instantly returns to the ink at Sherlock's back.

It _tingles_.

Irrationally, illogically, yes, but also quite inarguably.

Sherlock shares a knowing look with his reflection, in the glass of the microwave; then stretches, enjoying the feel of his muscles shifting, and says, as though it were the dullest suggestion in the world; “You can touch it, if you want, John. It won't bite.”

John goes a little pink, as though he's been caught perusing pornography, and he blusters through a sentence that even Sherlock can't quite make out.

Sherlock loves watching John flail, just as much as he enjoys watching John think.

Enjoys it, even more, when John rolls his eyes – two can play at the game of being indifferent, after all – walks into the kitchen, and reaches his hand to Sherlock's side, where the ink curves, just a little, around from Sherlock's back, and places his fingertips against it.

Sherlock's skin – which pays little attention to Sherlock's continuous assertions that it is mere transport – sets the edges of his mind purring. As it is, it takes all his self control not to shiver; not to push in against John's touch, as if Sherlock were _needy_.

Sherlock is in no way needy, so he simply stretches again; just to see what effect that will have upon his friend's expression; just to feel the way in which John's fingertips shift against the stretching motion.

Sherlock asks, “Do you like it?”

Taking into consideration all of the physical markers, the query is preposterously unnecessary. The detective finds, however, that he honestly does want to hear John vocalise the response.

Perhaps John can see it – John's brilliance is quite a different shape than Sherlock's own, but present nonetheless – because he lets his face colour with bare honesty. He breathes, “Oh yes.”

When John strokes his palm flat against the tattoo, and settles it there, warm and firm and steady, Sherlock's skin takes the reigns and pushes Sherlock firmly against the touch.

Sherlock decides that, for now – for however long this now lasts, this _now_ that John weaves ever brighter around them – his skin can have its indulgences. After all, there is a sort of brilliance to this, too, as John's eyes darken, laughing, and Sherlock ascertains that his friend's skin is just as wilful as his own, when pressed between detective and refrigerator door.


End file.
